


lungs

by jehans



Series: it's for you [24]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s on edge because he still has no cigarettes, he thinks. Not because Bahorel is looking particularly scruffy today and it’s turning him on <i>absolutely not</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lungs

It’s another two days before Feuilly and Bahorel see each other again. It’s not that they’re  _avoiding_  each other (of course not!), it’s just that between classes and Feuilly’s work schedule and Bahorel going out with Grantaire on Wednesday night, they just…don’t see each other.

So when Feuilly comes home from work on Thursday to find Bahorel sitting on the couch again, they totally  _do not_  look at each other with a distinct kind of panic before Feuilly swings the door shut behind him.

“Hey,” Feuilly says, his voice a little too high to sound completely casual.

“Hi,” Bahorel answers, and his voice is a little too low.

Feuilly goes into the kitchen like he always does. He’s on edge because he still has no cigarettes, he thinks. Not because Bahorel is looking particularly scruffy today and it’s turning him on  _absolutely not_. But then he forgets what he went in here for so he just stands by the sink.

And then Bahorel opens his mouth. “So the way I see it —” he begins, but is interrupted by Feuilly’s ungodly groan as he sinks into the counter in front of him.

“Can’t we just pretend it never happened?” he begs.

Bahorel frowns at him. “No,” he says decidedly, and then continues. “So the way I see it is…we were both totally drunk.”

Feuilly props himself up at that, seeing a ray of hope. “Yeah,” he agrees cautiously.

“And we were both ridiculously horny.”

“Yeah… .”

“And we were both  _there_ ,” Bahorel says. “And that was all. It wasn’t anything deeper than that shit, it was just that we were drunk, and horny, and  _there_. Right?”

Feuilly nods slowly.

“So nothing has to change,” Bahorel concludes. “Even though we’ve —” He stops, but all the things he doesn’t say drift through the air between them:  _Even though we’ve kissed each other and touched each other and marked each other with teeth and fingernails… ._  “Nothing has to change,” he finishes decidedly.

And for the first time in about two days, Feuilly smiles. “Right,” he says. “Nothing has to change.”

“Good,” Bahorel says, nodding. “Then get over here and bring chips because we’re watching Breaking Bad.”

Grabbing the half-empty bag of chips off the counter, Feuilly swings around the breakfast bar and flings himself onto the couch next to Bahorel, totally not noticing how clean he smells today. And for a few minutes, they watch, and they eat, and they insult each other playfully, and they laugh. And for a few minutes, nothing has changed.

Nobody mentions when Bahorel’s hand drifts over onto Feuilly’s thigh. Nobody says anything about how Feuilly leans into Bahorel’s arm and tilts his face toward his shoulder. No one speaks up when Bahorel turns and lets his hand slide all the way up to Feuilly’s groin, and nobody says a word as Feuilly climbs Bahorel like the mountain he is, pushing him back into the couch and attacking his collarbone with tongue and teeth as Bahorel tears at his clothes.

Nobody says a fucking word.

Panting, naked, exhausted, and  _craving a fucking cigarette_ , Feuilly rolls off of Bahorel and the couch a few minutes later. Bahorel watches him as he turns his face into the carpet and just lies there as though in defeat.

“Okay, I have another theory,” Bahorel tells him and Feuilly lets out a kind of broken wail into the carpet.

“Goddamnit, Bahorel!” he screams, and then pulls himself up to glare at his roommate and best friend  _whom he just fucked…again!_

Bahorel sighs and reaches down for his pants, fishing in the pocket for a second before wordlessly tossing Feuilly his pack of cigarettes.

Feuilly stares at the pack in his hands for a second like it’s a fucking dream, then scrambles for his lighter.

“I have another theory,” Bahorel repeats when Feuilly has popped one of his cigarettes, lit, between his teeth and is taking a long, gratified drag. Breathing out a puff of smoke, Feuilly looks up at him wearily. “Maybe we just need to accept it.”

That earns him a confused frown as Feuilly breathes in again. “What do you mean?” he asks. The way the smoke comes out in the rhythmic patterns of his words is kind of endearing.

Bahorel shrugs. “I mean…I’m straight,” he says.

“I’m straight, too,” Feuilly agrees.

“Right,” says Bahorel. “But I can’t fucking find a date, and you don’t have time for a goddamn girlfriend, and like — we  _know_  each other, and we  _live_  with each other, and…I don’t know, it’s good for me —”

“It’s good for me too,” Feuilly interjects carefully.

Bahorel nods. “Good,” he says. “Then maybe we should just… .”

“Yes?”

“Be fuck buddies?”

The silence that follows is brief, but heavy.

“Fuck buddies?” Feuilly asks.

“I mean it doesn’t mean anything, right?” Bahorel presses. “Since we’re both straight. It doesn’t have to  _mean_  anything, it’s just sex. And it’s  _good_  sex and that’s all it has to be.”

Feuilly takes another drag as he considers this. “Heterosexual fuck buddies?” he asks.

“It could work,” Bahorel says.

And then, slowly, Feuilly starts to grin. He’s deliciously aware of how naked they both are still. “Fuck buddies,” he says quietly, pushing himself up towards Bahorel, “That means I can do this, right?” He takes one more long drag and positions his face just a breath away from Bahorel’s, then breathes out into Bahorel’s open mouth.

The other man’s eyes close as he inhales the smoke from Feuilly’s lungs, and when Feuilly tilts forward to close the gap, he kisses him with a sort of greediness.

“Yep,” he whispers, grinning, when Feuilly pulls away, and then the cigarette is being slipped between his lips and Feuilly’s hand trails down his throat and chest, lighting on all the marks from his mouth.

“And I can do this?” Feuilly asks softly, kneeling between Bahorel’s legs and resting his wandering hand somewhere up Bahorel’s thigh.

Bahorel gasps around the cigarette as Feuilly’s warm mouth encompasses him, tongue dragging up. “Yeah,” he hears himself grunting, “you can do that.”

Feuilly rather delights in the high, strangled moans coming out of Bahorel as he moves, swirling his tongue experimentally. He never thought he’d like blowing another man, but as Bahorel’s fingers slip into his hair and then grip him tightly — almost painfully — he’s finding he’s really enjoying this.

And then when, with a feral yell, Bahorel comes in Feuilly’s mouth, Feuilly just sits back and fixes his eyes almost challengingly on Bahorel as he swallows.

“Fuck,” Bahorel gasps, kind of wonderingly. Then Feuilly is pulling himself up and pressing his lips to Bahorel’s and Bahorel can still kind of taste himself and it’s  _really fucking hot_. His arms slip around Feuilly’s lean frame, holding him there as these wild, hungry kisses turn sweet and gentle and lingering.

Because they’re fuck buddies now and they can do this.

For some reason, they both think this is going to end well.


End file.
